


Paris, The Next Day

by pherede



Series: Livewrites [13]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was her birthday; kiss me, she said, and he obliged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris, The Next Day

It’s five-thirty in the morning and the sun’s not up yet, but the sky outside is going pre-dawn blue and the mercury-vapor lamps in the street below are tinting the sides of everything orange. They left the window open last night; the occasional breeze brings in hints of fresh-baked croissant and whatever those thick-smelling white flowers are on the balcony.

After the raucous party last night, the absolute quiet of the hotel (the bicycles going past are the loudest thing she can hear) feels like water pressing on her ears. Or maybe she’s still a little drunk.

There is a warm body in bed beside her, a languor and soreness in her body that reminds her in vague flashes of the way her night went. _Kiss me,_ she’d said, laughing, champagne tipping disastrously. _It’s my birthday, give me a kiss!_ It wasn’t her birthday party; but after that it had been, after the sweet-tilting wry smile and the not-quite-polite pressure of his mouth against hers, innocent but just a little open.

And now he is beside her in the bed, breathing with easy rhythm, his weight making a slope of the mattress (which is an awful mattress, like all hotel mattresses in Europe, jesus) and making her want to give in and let gravity nestle her against his side.

His skin is still a little tacky with sweat. The bed is so rumpled that the sheets are creased uncomfortably under her back. The orange glow of streetlights and the faint light from the bathroom illuminate everything just barely, just enough: he is beautiful still, this tall man beside her, not just a dream. Her feet are tangled with his shins, he is that tall; his shoulders are broad, unguarded now in sleep (there was a slouch to him, an apologetic diminishing, which is now gone), lifting with each breath to pull the sheets tight between them, to put some tactile value upon her skin with each movement even though they are not, except her toes and his legs, touching.

They had danced— waltzed, actually, and he was pretty good at it even if both of them were delirious with alcohol and the elation of Paris (vacation or movie premiere, they both had their reasons to celebrate) and also with the unexpected joy of speaking English, and of finding someone to kiss.  
 They’d left the party holding hands, which felt wicked and secret for absolutely no reason, except that he was beautiful and his laugh came so bright and easy and his mouth was so obviously meant for kissing that surely every stranger they passed must know that she meant to kiss it, and do worse?

Now his mouth is open, just slightly, pouting in a dream. As the pale blue light of morning grows, she sees more detail, realizes exactly what kind of impossible beauty she has dragged by the hand into his bed: sees hair cowlicked by fingers and sheets, sees cheekbones that startled her with their magazine perfection, sees eyelashes lying across cheeks in a dark unfluttering brushstroke.

And more: the angle and architecture of his collarbones and shoulders, the muscle slumbering in soft shapes and now— and now moving, breath shifting, eyes flickering open, surprised blinking parchment-colored gaze in the low light locking onto her, and then a smile.

Oh god that smile. She remembers now that his tall frame, his broad shoulders, his angelic face were not why she had asked him for a kiss. She had not even asked in hopes of actually getting a kiss. She had asked him just to see him smile, even if he shook his head while smiling.

And he had smiled, as he smiles now, and his arm had slipped around her waist, as it now slips— pulling her close, shifting his position to admit her— and he had kissed her. Only now he kisses her again, and it is no flirtatious Paris kiss; it is sleepy and slow, lips lazy and no pressure of teeth or tongue, catching her own lips and waking up to them, understanding them, smiling into them as she also smiles.

Even the movement of kissing him back, slipping her arm about his shoulder, reminds her body of how sore she is and how much the combination of high heels and champagne and athletic, frantic sex has taken out of her; but it’s delightful to look at him and touch him, and to have him delight in her even with the drunken excitement abated, and when he rocks against her with sleepy indulgence and she feels the hardness of him and how he wants her too—

“Room service,” he says, low and happy in her ear, and she laughs at him and forces herself to go perform her morning ablutions, smiling at herself deliriously as she brushes her teeth, while he orders breakfast in a clumsy mix of English and terrible French. Her hair is a mess. She really doesn’t care.

Ten minutes later she’s back in bed, still perfectly naked and now with chilled skin, curling up to him, kissing and being kissed; kissing with lazy fervor and burning into slow melting fever. He touches her as if he knows her already, as if he remembers her body.

And he touches her as if he is insatiable, long fingers sweeping and pressing and seeking, tasting her throat and groaning as her hands splay and grip; and he touches her gently at first and then with rhythmic pressure that has her gasping; and he touches her until she comes apart, until she’s molten, until even her sore and aching body is ready to move with his; and by the time breakfast arrives they are glowing, gasping, spent and delighted, and both of them are quite sure that they won’t be leaving the room for at least a couple of days.


End file.
